At Your Pleasure (38 page)

At the doorway she grabbed onto the frame, the scene outside imprinting itself with paralyzing vividness:

Some strange man held his sword to Adrian’s throat.

Twenty paces away from him, too far across the yard, his men had realized the trap. Their swords were drawn but they were encircled.

Grizel cowered against a wall.

A hand closed on her arm. “You will want to step out of the way, my dear,” came Barstow’s kindly voice, and then he matched action to advice, pushing her aside as plain-clothed men tumbled past, brandishing swords.

For a moment that seemed to freeze and then grow more complex, like the formation of an ice crystal on glass, blooming before her eyes, Nora divined how it would go:

Lord John and David, in pursuit of a common enemy, had reached some private accord.

The cost, somehow, would be Adrian’s life.

She would profit by her brother, but lose her husband in the bargain.

The stillness shattered. Adrian threw himself backward and came up with blade in hand; his opponent lunged and Adrian twisted away, raising his sword to stop a blow that otherwise would have beheaded him. Across the yard, swords clashed as his men gave fight.

Freed of her dread vision, she saw the truth in her own heart. To have her brother at the cost of Adrian was no bargain at all.

The fight raged across the yard, drawing more men from hidden corners. What horses had not been stabled were shying as swords danced past and nicked them. One broke free to make a frantic gallop around the edges of the yard.

Adrian and his men were more than outnumbered. They were being fought two to one. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried to Lord Barstow.

He was watching the melee with a faint smile. “Why, justice for your brother.” He cut her a sly glance. “And for you as well. For was it not your husband who persuaded your brother to adopt James Stuart’s cause?”

She shook her head wildly. “You speak nonsense!”

“Ah, but think before you speak,” Lord Barstow said. “I pray you, lady,
think
—for a man seduced against his better nature to commit evil is a far easier man to pity—and more deserving of mercy—than the man who authored the evil plot. Was it not Lord Rivenham who urged your brother to go abroad? Was it not your husband who oversaw the placing of the poison the night his men slept, and the gunpowder was planted at Hodderby?”

“No! No, that was I! And the gunpowder—”

“Think,” he said sharply, glaring at her. “Think of your brother’s welfare, madam! If some other man is responsible for the gunpowder, then perhaps that same man also arranged the shipment of weaponry. Indeed, the only sin which might be proved of your brother is his ill-timed holiday to France. And you, my lady—you will soon find yourself freed of an unfortunate connection that gives you no cheer!”

A man fell beneath Adrian’s blade, his blood spurting across her husband’s face. His savage focus twisted his features past recognition as he hacked forward to his new opponent.

Her hands curled into fists. She stepped forward but Lord Barstow restrained her.

“You must not be slain,” he said mildly. “We will require your full support in this undertaking, and your testimony, too.”

Her nails cut into her palms. Savagely she turned on him. “You will not have it! I will not—”

Lord John’s bounding approach interrupted her. “More men!” he gasped raggedly. “Where are the damned archers—”

“What archers?” Barstow scoffed. “What are you, a woman? Go out and command your men!”

On a sudden hope she looked out. It was true: Adrian and his men were making advances. The dust of the yard was blood-soaked, a picture lifted straight from illustrations of hell; men groaned and writhed and she was godforsaken, for their misery left her untouched. She had
bloodlust inside her, too, now; she cheered inwardly and viciously when Braddock struck down another man, and rejoiced as he reached Adrian’s side.

“I will end this,” Lord John said. He grabbed her and dragged her backward. Her slippers fell away; gravel scraped her soles.

A knife bit into her throat.

“Rivenham!” he roared. His arm banded her ribs to prevent her struggle. “Throw down your sword or collect the head of your wife!”

David’s roar was the first reply. Breaking from his engagement, he bounded toward them.

“Rivenham!” screamed Lord John.

This time Adrian heard. Though it risked her life, she could not restrain her cry as his attention broke from battle to fix on her, and his opponent landed a blow to his arm that staggered him.

Braddock leapt to his master’s side, answering the insult with one sharp slice that felled the enemy. “Hold!” Lord John yelled. “Hold, Gardiner!”

His men, hearing, began to retreat in tight formation toward the steps.

When Adrian’s men rushed to follow, Adrian said in a carrying voice, “Hold, Ferrers!”

David had reached the steps now, but Lord Barstow unsheathed his sword and held it out to bring him to a stop. “What madness is this?” he demanded of his son. “We will require her testimony—”

“Watch,” Lord John bit out. “Lay down your swords,” he shouted, “or else I gut her like a sow past her prime!”

Adrian stood too far distant for his expression to come clear to her. But she saw him turn toward Braddock. Whatever he said caused that man to shake his head in fierce denial.

Adrian ignored this. He stepped forward, and Braddock, after a brief hesitation, fell back.

“Open the gates to my men,” Adrian called. “They are of no interest to you.”

“That is not yours to decide!” Lord John retorted, but his father cuffed him hard.

“Open the gates,” Barstow bellowed. “You fool,” he snapped to his son. “What idiot refuses to part an enemy from his men?”

Disbelief crawled over her like a swarm of bees. Adrian meant to surrender himself. He did not know that Lord John bluffed. He would be killed for her sake—and why? Even her love for him had served him ill!

“No!” she cried. “Adrian, go—”

Lord John’s palm smothered her mouth. It stank of foul sweat and deceits, and made her gag.

“Gently!” David yelled at him. “You whoreson, gently!”

The gates began to creak open.

Adrian threw down his sword.

What overcame her then she could not say, only that it felt larger than herself and seemed to descend from above in a great wave that reddened the world and slowed time, providing her a new vision with which to see opportunities.

She clawed the hand from her face and cried, “David, by your love, help—”

He mounted the step and Lord John took it as provocation, releasing her to answer the new threat—as did his father, who never thought to worry for her. She threw herself into Barstow, a solid smack that shoved him into his son and caused Lord John to stumble to his knees on the steps. She leapt down the stairs and David held out his arms, but she ducked past, screaming as she flew, “Run!”

“Grab her!” screamed Barstow, and she heard her brother’s quick curse and his footsteps behind her, while ahead Adrian had recovered his sword and the battle broke open again. But he was coming toward her now and she knew in her gut that this time he would not leave her brother alive.

David was nearly upon her, screaming, telling her she did not understand—

She dropped mid-step to her knees. Her brother, moving too quickly, slammed into her, his boot striking a fire of agony through her hip as he thudded over her and fell to the ground.

Head ringing, she forced herself to crawl forward, past him.

A hard grip caught her arm and hauled her up. Her fear soared and then blinked out, for her husband paid no heed to her brother; his face bloodied, he pulled her to him, bracing her hard beneath her arm, and then retreated backward, his grip suffocating her as he swung her from side to side, his sword outstretched, looking for opposition. Around her the clash of swords became deafening. Her vision blotted out by Adrian’s chest, she had
no idea how far they progressed, but his sudden whirl made her stumble and then he was taking her under her arms and hauling her up across a horse that sidestepped and stamped as he mounted behind her.

Bodies littered the yard, six, eight, ten—

Lord John was crouched over her brother, screaming into his ear, shaking him—

The horse wheeled beneath Adrian’s direction; she caught sight of Braddock, mounted with Grizel behind him, fleeing through the closing gates.

“Hip!”
came Adrian’s scream in her ear. His mount responded, bolting forward toward the narrowing exit. They were passing through—passing—

The gates slammed shut behind them.

They rode hard for speechless hours as the sun peaked and began to set. In those brief times when they slowed the horses for necessity’s sake, to give the beasts proper breath, her lord husband made no effort to fill the silence. But his grip on her remained as hard as though she were still menaced by dangers, and he made no complaint when, by the light of the rising moon, she ripped her petticoats and urged him to his knees by a stream so she could clean and dress his wound.

He was not the only man in need of such aid. By the time she had tended to the last of them, her petticoats were tattered and the moon was setting. Bare-legged beneath her skirts, she retook her seat on Adrian’s mount.

They made no further stops, riding straight into town
in the true darkness before dawn. London’s streets were ghostly, the horses’ hooves clattering over the cobblestones and echoing off the closed shutters of narrow houses. Soho Square slept beneath a fitful breeze that rattled the dying leaves in their branches, and it took several rounds of hard knocking before Adrian’s startled, sleepy staff roused to accommodate the unexpected visitors—not only master and mistress but dusty soldiers besides.

Nora barely registered the details of her new home: it was large, and cold, and magnificently appointed. Adrian left to confer with his men, and his chambers echoed around her. Bathwater, lukewarm, came with unlikely speed. Some housemaid substituted for Grizel, who was near to swooning with fatigue, but Nora was content, for the girl scrubbed her with vigor.

Once she was tucked beneath the quilts, she could not sleep, and waited dry-eyed and numb, staring at the fire, until Adrian appeared in the doorway.

She shoved herself upright then. He leaned against the door frame, watching her. So many questions tangled in her throat that she hardly knew where to begin. She found herself strangely abashed. The light of the fire playing over his face lit a shifting expression, now like anger, now like sorrow, and finally, as he stepped toward her, like simple weariness.

“My love,” he said as he came to sit on the edge of the bed, “do not think your brother free. The Gardiners are no Jacobites.”

On an indrawn breath, she realized that he did not
understand what had passed. He thought it a simple attempt at assassination.

“Adrian”—she leaned toward him to grasp his wrist—“they struck a deal with him. With David.”

He hesitated. “A deal.”

“My brother was to indict you for the gunpowder—to say you had done his deeds, and dispatched him to France in your stead; that he was only your peon, and you the designer of his plots.”

Some grim, terrible smile crossed his lips. “I see. And to what purpose? Did they say?”

Was not the answer obvious? “To shift the blame to you. Lord John is no friend to you—I suppose his family thought they would profit by your downfall. And my brother, too—by the somewhat clearing of his name. Lord Barstow said he might find mercy this way, if he were your dupe rather than his own agent.”

The smile faded. “A harebrained plan,” he said with calm contempt. “They could never prove my involvement to the satisfaction of my peers.”

“Yes, but—” She swallowed. How odd it felt to expose her brother’s schemes to him. At last she was at peace with her role, but the lingering feeling of dishonor remained, a useless reflex. “They assumed I would support them with my testimony.”

His silence churned her innards. It seemed to smack to her of skepticism. Though this plot was not her doing, she felt her face warm. “I know it was harebrained,” she blurted. “Who would care for a woman’s word, or trust it where it served her brother? Only—I suppose they
depended on the fact that I am married to you. Most women would support their husbands before their brothers. It would have lent credibility to my claim, had I done otherwise.”

“Yes.” The word came out softly. He laid his hand over hers. “So it would have.”

“But I did not agree to it,” she said helplessly, for she was increasingly confused by his strange pauses. She wished to make certain he was clear on this point.

“I know,” he said. “I was there. I know you had no hand in it.” And then he pulled her into an openmouthed kiss.

It caught her by surprise. He took hold of her waist and pulled her up against him, and the skillful aggression of his mouth began to kindle parts of her she had imagined too weary for interest.

When he pulled away, he studied her closely. “You did not accept this bargain,” he said—as though the other phrasing had not been sufficiently clear.

“No.” She sounded breathless. Wetting her lips, she tried for a more confident voice. “I never considered it. My brother’s mistakes are his own. I could not let you pay for them.”

“But if he pays with his life?” Now his forehead touched hers, so they were eye to eye. In the dim light, his irises seemed to have a light of their own, an impossible green, the color of new life, of hope. “You knew it might mean his death.”

Her hand fluttered to his cheek. The prickling of a new beard lightly abraded her palm. “I cannot bear to
think on that,” she whispered. “But when it came to your life, my path seemed . . . very clear.” Suddenly she could not hold his eyes, and her heart leapt and battered at her ribs. “I had no way to save you both,” she said, very low.

“And so you saved me.”

She forced herself to look at him again.

There was tenderness on his face, and in his lips as he pressed them, very softly, to hers.

“I love you,” she said against his mouth. “You must know you have my heart.”